The juxtaposition was hard to think about: Nicole Kidman revealing last night on his show that she had a crush on Jimmy Fallon, never acted upon because he didn't realize, which could have changed both their lives, and then in the morning finding out about the terrorist attack to a satirical newspaper, a mass murder of 12 people, in France. They don't have anything in common except I see them now as the beauty and barbarity of the same world.

A gorgeous woman says she liked a goofy guy way out of her league. The goofy guy is known for his enthusiasm for his guests and their artistic wares. He's known for fun games he plays with them, and viral videos that make people happy. She's known for her art, an Oscar winner who won playing Virginia Woolf. (And Woolf ended her own life because the world was too much for her.) Their hilarious conversation, or should I say her reveal that she liked him, and his total unbelief and feeling of massive missed opportunity, was very cute. It was lovely, in fact. A girl confesses that she liked a guy who had no knowledge of it because he could never believe a girl like that would like him. How humble. That's probably why she started to like him.

Now the terrorist attack. 12 people slaughtered. For publishing cartoons. Think how crazy senseless that is.

The universe is indifferent. Stanley Kubrick said as much but also added that it is up to us to find the light within it. The world is amazing enough and large enough to hold both. As trite as this post is, I can't help but think about the whiplash discordance of what I saw last night to what I saw this morning. I wish we had many more embarrassed Nicole Kidmans and Jimmy Fallons and much less pissed off murderous extremists and dead cartoonists. We must, for there are billions of people that make up the human race that are the products of such shy but acted upon feelings. Maybe the second always makes the first that much more lovely and beautiful, and those are the things we remember and hold dear. Or we must make the effort to hold them in our memory rather than the terrible stuff. Now, without ever having thought of her recently before, I want to see Nicole Kidman further doing things that make me happy.

The New Yorker in their first issue after 9/11 devoted one page to a poem, the title I am thinking of now. It was called Try To Praise to the Mutilated World.